


You're Okay

by golden_gardenias



Series: The Trust We Mapped Out in My Bed [3]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-16 08:18:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2262531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/golden_gardenias/pseuds/golden_gardenias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian is spiraling, and Mickey doesn't know what to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Okay

Mickey's being pulled in too many different directions to keep himself sane.

His days consist of waking up in the tent Ian set up for them on the rooftop they'd made his training course on with Ian's arms wrapped around him and their legs tangled together.  The ground is hard and the sleeping bag thin, but each night is the best sleep he's ever gotten.  Ian is always up before him, which strikes him as odd; Ian slept like the dead the one time they'd shared his bed, but now Mickey opens his eyes to find Ian staring down at him, eyes narrowed in concentration.

If he didn't know any better, he'd say Ian wasn't sleeping at all.

There are times when he'll wake up in the middle of the night to Ian crushing him to his chest and crying softly into his neck, whispering that he's sorry, he's so sorry, he didn't mean for it to happen, _how could he let it happen_ \--but Mickey turns over and holds him until his breathing evens out and his heart rate slows with sleep.

Ian never looks peaceful at night, and it's even worse during the day.  It's as if a switch has been flipped, and suddenly he's smiling too wide and laughing too hard, chattering animatedly with customers and talking Mickey's ear off, asking him question he's never thought about before.

"If you got out of here, and you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?"

"Do you ever think about what it would be like to live in a movie?"

"So Atlantis: real or not real?"

But it's not really the questions that bother him; it's the way Ian asks them.  There's a look of focused intensity in his eyes that almost frightens him, and he'll blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

"Jupiter."

"I wouldn't want to live in any of your shitty movies, Gallagher."

"The fuck is that?"

Ian laughs every time.

Other times, when he runs through his obstacle course and has Mickey quiz him on geometry at the same time, he'll be like himself, the way he was before...before.

He hates that he still can't think about it, hates that he remembers that day every time he sees his brothers sitting on the couch or hears his father cock a gun or smells his wife's perfume.  He hates that his father glares at him whenever Mandy casually mentions the Gallaghers.  He hates that Svetlana is starting to show.  And more than anything, he hates the haunted look in Ian's eyes when he stares at him.

The bell over the shop door chimes, and he straightens, setting his magazine aside.

"Forgot you worked here."

The gruff voice makes him freeze, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck.  He can feel Ian's eyes on him from behind the counter, but he keeps himself focused on his father, standing in the doorway of the Kash and Grab.

He forces himself to act naturally.  "Yeah, well, gotta make money somehow."

Terry grunts, making his way to the back of the store for two six-packs.

Ian is still watching him, but Mickey can't tear his eyes away from his father.  This is the first time since _that day_ that Terry and Ian have been in the same room together, and it makes his palms itch.

Terry grabs his beer and starts to leave, and Mickey almost breathes a sigh of relief before Ian ruins everything.

"$14.49."

The two Milkoviches freeze, but for entirely different reasons.  "Excuse me?" Terry asks, turning to Ian.

Mickey glares at him from behind his father's back, trying to signal to him to shut up, but Ian ignores him.  "$14.49," he says again, crossing his arms over his chest.

Terry scoffs and goes to open the door again.

"You either pay for your shit or I call the police."  Ian's voice is hard, and his eyes are harder.

Mickey drags a hand over his face and huffs out a short breath.  "What did you just say to me?" Terry asks menacingly.

Ian leans forward, chin jutting out slightly.  "If you don't pay for your shit, I'll call the police.  And I've got a whole hell of a lot to tell them."

Mickey doesn't understand the way his father stiffens at the threat, glaring at Ian.  "You got a lot of balls for a fag," he says, reaching into his pocket.

"I could say the same to you, Terry," Ian retorts, putting the money in the register.

Mickey freezes in shock, but Terry shoots a hand out to grab Ian by the collar of his shirt.  "What the fuck did you just say to me?" he snarls.

Ian opens his mouth again, presumably to repeat himself, but Mickey steps forward.  "He didn't say anything, Dad."   _Please, Ian, for the love of God, shut the fuck up._

"I didn't fucking ask you," Terry snaps.

"I said--"

"There's cameras," Mickey blurts.  His hands are shaking.  "There's security cameras in here.  Let him go."

Terry deliberates for a moment before shoving Ian back roughly into the shelves lining the wall behind him.  He has his eyes locked on Ian's as he leaves, mouth set into a grim line, and Ian glares right back at him.

Once Terry's out of their line of sight, Mickey rounds on him.  "What the  _fuck_ was that?  Do you have a death wish?  Did he not make you bleed enough the last time he saw you or something?"

Ian is still staring out the door.  " _Ian_.  Fucking look at me, you piece of shit."

But Ian doesn't look at him.  Not really.  His eyes are on Mickey, but it's like he can't see him.

His vacant expression fills Mickey with fear.

 

* * *

 

Mickey is still scared days after the encounter in the store.  His father gives him pointed glares whenever the Gallaghers are mentioned and asks about "the redheaded boy," watching Mickey for a reaction.  He breaks into a cold sweat each time, lump rising in his throat as he tries to ignore the eyes boring into him.

He goes to the Kash and Grab on days he isn't working, watching Ian stock shelves and listening to him chatter and keeping one eye on the street looking for his father.

Ian notices.  "Why are you here?" he asks.

Mickey shrugs stiffly, eyes still roaming.

"It's your day off, Mickey."

Ian seems to have forgotten the incident involving Mickey's father, but Mickey knows that Terry hasn't.  Terry wouldn't soon forget that the boy who'd fucked his son had also insulted him.

Mickey doesn't tell Ian this; he just continues to show up on his days off and watch Ian walk home and wait with baited breath for Ian to come to their tent.

It's exhausting.

"Mickey," Ian whispers.  "Mick."

They're laying in their sleeping bag, listening to the city below them.  "What?" he asks.

Ian sits up a bit, looking down at him.  "We could leave," he says.  "Tonight.  Right now."

Mickey furrows his brows.  "The fuck are you talking about?"

"We've got clothes.  And money.  We could pack everything up and leave."

He wants to say yes.  It startles him how badly he wants to go somewhere, anywhere, wherever Ian wants.

But "No" is what comes out of his mouth.

Ian frowns.  "You hate it here," he says.  "You hate living in that house.  You can't keep staying there."

All of what he says is true, but no matter how badly he wants to breathe freely with Ian, breathe air that isn't tainted with Terry, he can't ignore the sick feeling in his stomach at the idea of Mandy being the only kid in the house.  He doesn't want to imagine her being the only one there when Terry gets in one of his drunken rages and goes hunting through the house for a punching bag.  "I'm not leaving my sister," he says quietly.  "And you've got a family too, man."

Ian shrugs, laying back down.  "One less mouth to feed," he whispers.

Mickey's hand twitches at his side.  "Don't they need your Kash and Grab money for that squirrel fund?"

"Fiona's got a steady job now.  Even got Debbie and Carl cell phones."  He's quiet for a moment.  "Lip's got a free ride to Chicago Polytechnic that'll start soon."

"Really?" he snorts.  "Well good for him.  Maybe he'll remember everything Mandy did for him when he's accepting his Nobel Prize someday."

Ian doesn't respond.  He stares blankly at the top of the tent, unblinking.

Mickey doesn't know what he sees.

 

* * *

 

Ian isn't there when Mickey wakes up.

There's something lodged in his chest that makes it difficult to breathe when he sees how empty the tent is and feels how cold Ian's half of the blankets are.  His thoughts are a jumbled mess as he scrambles up, forcing his freezing toes into his boots and trying to run across the roof and down the steps.  It's too early for the Kash and Grab to be open, so he sprints to the Gallagher house.

"No" is on a constant loop, screaming in his head as he pushes his legs faster.

He trips up the back steps, hoping the door is unlocked like it was the last time he'd come here.

It's not.

He pounds on the door, trying to reign in his panic.  "Ian," he calls.  "Ian let me in.  Fucking let me in, Ian!  Now!"

The door wrenches open, and a bleary-eyed Carl stands before him.  "He's not here."

"You seen him?" he asks.  He tries to keep the desperation out of his tone and off his face, but knows that it bleeds through.  "Where the fuck is he?"

Carl shrugs.  "Don't know.  He always sneaks out after he thinks we're asleep."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"Last night's dinner."

His chest is tight again, and he runs to the Milkovich house, ignoring Carl's indignant shouts.

Everyone is still asleep when he bursts in, but he doesn't care.  He goes to Mandy's room, finding her curled around the guy she'd met at his wedding.  "Mandy," he says, shaking her awake.  She mumbles curses at him and swats his hands away, but he prods on.  "Mandy.  Did you talk to Ian?"

"The fuck are you talking about?" she asks irritably, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.  "Do you have any idea what fucking time it is?"

"Just answer the fucking question!" he bites out.  "Have you heard from Ian at all today?"

"It's barely eight o'clock, of course I haven't heard from him.  The fuck's going on?"

He stalks out of the room and slams the door before she can finish asking.

His father's door is closed, and part of him wants to kick it down and confront him, yell until he tells him where Ian is, but his rational side talks him down.  Ian left the tent voluntarily.  Ian crept out in the middle of the night.

His phone rings.  The number flashing across the screen is unknown, so he rejects it and stuffs his phone back into his pocket.  It rings again a moment later, the same unknown number.  "What?" he snaps, trying to stop his fingers from twitching.

"Mickey."

He rushes out of the house at the sound of Ian's voice.  "Where the fuck are you?" he hisses.

"I--I don't know."

The lump comes back to his throat.  "What do you mean, you don't know?"

"I'm--" he pauses to ask someone in the background something.  A smooth-as-butter voice answers, one that Mickey's half sure he recognizes, and he doesn't know if it comforts him or disturbs him that Ian's not alone.  "I'm at the Four Seasons.  Room 618."

"What the fuck are you doing there?" he asks, bewildered.

"Can you come get me?"

Ian's voice is tired, and Mickey knows that there's a vulnerability in his eyes right now that he can't ignore.  He runs back inside to grab a set of keys from an end table drawer and then jogs to the lot where they keep their getaway car for when they go on beer runs.  "I'm on my way."

"Thank you," he breathes.  His voice is saturated with relief.

Mickey doesn't hang up, listening for more stuff in the background.  There's soft rustling that he thinks might be bedsheets and murmuring from that voice again.  "Do you want anything to eat?" it asks.

He still can't place it, but his body has a visceral reaction to it, making his blood boil for some unknown reason.  He steps on the gas, probably accelerating too quickly for the old engine to handle, but he doesn't care.

Ian answers resignedly.  "No, I'm fine."

"Something to drink, then?"

He hates this voice.  He wants whoever it belongs to to stop talking to Ian.  "You need to have  _something_ , Red."

And that's when it hits him.

_Invite your boyfriend back to my place._

_Well if it isn't the toughest fag-beater this side of the Chicago River._

He wants to be angry that Ian's with that fucking pervert.  Well he is, but it's not the anger he expected to course through his veins.  He thought he would be angry that Ian left their tent to be with fucking Ned, of all people, but he's not.  He's angry that something's not right with Ian, hasn't been right for weeks, and now he's alone with the ex who's older than both their fathers.  "Ian," he bites out.  "Ian, did he...are you okay?"

It's quiet on the other end, and the silence makes the skin over his knuckles itch.  "Yeah," he says, voice hoarse.  "I think so."

"I'll be there soon," he assures.  He snaps his phone shut and tosses it onto the passenger seat, fingers curling around the steering wheel and clutching it in a white-knuckle grip.

The rest of the ride is a blur, and he does a half-assed park job before jumping out the car and rushing past the doorman.  "Excuse me," a receptionist calls out to him. "Sir!"

He sees a security guard start to walk toward him, and he rolls his eyes before doubling back and going to the front desk.  "I'm going to room 618, alright?  Ned Lishman.  He's expecting me."

The woman looks him up and down before arranging her face into a false smile.  "Would you mind if I called up to verify that?  It's our policy."

His jaw clenches, but he doesn't say anything.  She keeps her eyes on him as she picks up the phone and punches in the room number.  "Dr. Lishman?  This is the front desk.  There's a--oh.  Are you sure?  Yes, okay."

She waves him up, and he crosses the lobby in time to make it onto the lift.  The other people in the car look at him disdainfully, but he ignores them.

He shoots out once it stops at the sixth floor, walking briskly to the room at the end of the hall and knocking loudly.  "Let me in, Lishman!" he calls through the wood.

Ned opens the door in a terrycloth robe, and Mickey pushes past him abruptly.  Ian is sitting on the bed, staring at his knees, also in a robe.

Mickey rounds on him.  "You sick piece of shit," he snarls, advancing.

Ned puts his hands up in surrender.  "No, nothing happened!  He took a bath when I brought him here, he slept in that.  I just got out of the shower."

Mickey looks to Ian for confirmation, but he continues staring at his knees, as if he didn't even know Mickey was there.  He turns back to Ned.  "If he tells me anything different, you're gone."

Ned nods.  "Fair enough."

Mickey glares at him before making his way to Ian, standing in front of him nervously.  "Ian," he says softly.  "You alright, man?"

Ian looks up at him with glassy eyes, not answering.  "Hey, what's wrong?" he asks, putting a hand on his shoulder.  Ian wraps his arms around his middle, burying his face in Mickey's stomach and inhaling deeply.

Mickey scratches Ian's head lightly with one hand and rubs between his shoulder blades with the other.  "You're okay," he whispers.  "You're okay."

"How long has he been like this?"

Ned's voice startles him, and his shoulders tense.  "Been like what?  He spent the night here, shouldn't you know?"

"No, I mean how long has he been...different."

Mickey can feel tears leaking onto his shirt.  "A few weeks."

"Did something happen?"

Ian's hands are pulling desperately at the back of his coat.  "He--He got hurt."

"Bashed?"

He pauses to consider.  "I...sort of, I guess."

Ned watches Ian's shoulders shake.  "He should see someone," he says.

Mickey furrows his brows.  "What do you mean, see someone?"

"You should take him to a doctor."

Fear starts to worm its way into his chest.  "Why?  The fuck's wrong with him?"

"I don't know, that's why he should see a doctor."

"Aren't you a doctor?" Mickey asks impatiently.

"Not that kind of doctor."

The words are heavy in Mickey's ears.  "He's--He's not fucking crazy or some shit like that," he bites out.

Ian's shoulders shake harder.  "I'm not saying he is, just that he might be...sick."

Mickey's jaw clenches.  The vibrations of Ian mumbling through his tears rumble through his stomach, and he steps out of Ian's arms to kneel in front of him.  His eyes are red and his cheeks flushed.  Mickey bunches up his shirt sleeve over his hand and wipes his face, trying not to listen to the constant loop of "I'm sorry"s being whispered to him.

"You don't have anything to be sorry for, I told you that," he says quietly, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice.  "Come on, let's go home.  Family's probably looking for you again."

Ned drops the pile of Ian's clothes onto the bed next to them, along with a piece of hotel stationary with a name and phone number on it.  "Call her," he says.  "She'll help."

They share a long look before Ned leaves the room so Mickey can help Ian get dressed.  Ian's movements are sluggish, but he's not crying anymore.

Mickey pockets the paper before grabbing Ian's wrist and leading him out.  Ned watches them go with concern in his eyes, but doesn't say anything.

When they get to the car--which miraculously doesn't have any parking tickets--Ian immediately curls up in the passenger seat, facing the window.  Mickey feels like he should say something, but nothing comes to mind.  "Wanna tell me why you went home with that perv?" he asks.

Ian continues to stare blankly out the window.  "He found me," he says quietly.

"Found you where?"

He shrugs.  "I don't know where I was.  He pulled up next to me and said he would take me someplace warm."

Mickey's hands clench on the wheel.  "And did he...do anything once you got there?"

Ian shakes his head.  "I think he tried, but I didn't want to."

"What do you mean, you think he tried?  The fuck happened?"

Silence.

" _Ian._   Fucking tell me what happened."

Ian's hands twitch in his lap.  "I was cold, and he drew me a bath.  Offered to wash me."

A fresh wave of hatred nearly overwhelms him.  "And that's it?" he asks harshly.  "Is that all he did?"

"He didn't touch me, Mickey," he says tiredly.

"Fucking good," he says darkly.  His arms and shoulders are still stiff, and he tries to relax them.  "How did you get to wherever the fuck you were when he found you, anyway?"

No response.

Mickey glances over at him and sees that he's fallen asleep.

* * *

The Gallaghers and Mandy swarm them when they get to Ian's house, but Mickey waves them off, helping Ian up to his room and slamming the door in everyone's faces. Ian makes no attempt to undress, so Mickey takes off his sneakers and jacket for him.  "I was flying," he says quietly.

Mickey stops his search of the dresser for a pair of sweatpants for Ian to wear to bed.  "What?" he asks.

Ian stares up at the ceiling.  "It was...weird," he rasps.  "In the tent, I couldn't sleep, but I felt tired, you know?  And I couldn't stop _thinking._   There was so much in my head, and it was like--like I was thinking faster than I was moving, you know?  And my skin was...buzzing, almost.  So I went for a walk, but that didn't help, so I started to run.  It felt like flying."  He pauses.  "I was flying, but I didn't know how to land."

Mickey's mouth is dry.  He fingers the paper in his pocket as he watches Ian curl in on himself.  His movements are robotic as he takes off Ian's jeans, replaces them with a pair of sweats, and swaths him in blankets.  There are people on the other side of the door that will ask questions, demand to know what's going on, and he won't have anything to tell them other than the obvious.

Something is wrong.  Something is very,  _very_ wrong.


End file.
